There is not any haunt of prophecy, Nor any old chimera of the grave, Neither the golden underground, nor isle Melodious, where spirits gat them home, Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured As April's green endures; or will endure Like her remembrance of awakened birds, Or her desire for June and evening, tipped By the consummation of the swallow's wings.
Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.
Of the Surface of Things In my room, the world is beyond my understanding; But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four Hills and a cloud.
The old brown hen and the old blue sky, Between the two we live and die The broken cartwheel on the hill.
I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.
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